


Across the borders, between continents

by meeks00



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-01
Updated: 2010-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:40:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meeks00/pseuds/meeks00
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more." He might not have the words, but you know what they say: Actions speak louder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Across the borders, between continents

**Author's Note:**

> An expanded version from [](http://queeniegalore.livejournal.com/profile)[**queeniegalore**](http://queeniegalore.livejournal.com/) ’s [kink meme](http://queeniegalore.livejournal.com/264028.html). Title is from “Cathedrals” by Jump, Little Children. I don’t even know what to tell you right now. Thanks a lot, kink meme — now I’m all porned out ~~and going to hell~~.

Ray fuckin’ talks a lot.

To Brad, that’s not news. It’s not really news to anyone who’s ever come across the man, to be honest, but Brad probably knows better than anyone other than Ray’s mom.

Ray talks about his shits; he talks about the sun; he talks about his dick, Brad’s dick, animals, food, the Corps, his mom, couches, movies, sand, muscle cars — and he talks a lot about sex in relation to all of the above (except his mom).

Brad doesn’t mind having conversations about all of those things. Most of the time, he just sits there, or stands there, or lies there and lets Ray’s voice wash over him until it almost turns into white noise. He can get away with noncommittal sounds in response — “mmhm” and “yeah” — even during sex because Ray talks enough for the both of them, gets Brad off talking dirty and gets himself off talking about how dirty as fuck they both are together.

But, sure, sometimes Ray does stop talking eventually.

For instance: Ray likes to get down on his knees. His voice is a bit raw, but he always says that he likes the ache of it, the burn of his joints when he gets up after a good, long suck with come dripping off his chin. Brad allows himself to be pushed back until the backs of his thighs hit the mattress of their bed, and then Ray kneels there in the ‘V’ of his legs.

The man exhales fast and hot breaths on Brad’s cock, and he talks — God he fuckin’ talks so dirty about all of the things he’s going to do as he pumps his fist slow and slick with spit until Brad’s going crazy from it with his hands fisted in the bed sheets and his cock leaking pre-come.

And then Ray gets that grin on his face, that goddamn shit-eating grin on his face, and he licks at the head of Brad’s dick, sucks down what he calls his night’s appetizer. Then his mouth takes Brad in and it’s moist and it’s tight and Ray sucks so hard that his cheeks hollow out, and he swallows until Brad’s dick is halfway down his throat.

Ray doesn’t talk then because he can’t.

There are other times Ray doesn’t talk too. When he’s swallowing, for instance, and not just come. When they eat together — breakfast, lunch, and dinner — Ray talks with food on its way to his mouth, food in his mouth, food falling out of his mouth, but he’s got to swallow some time. That’s usually when Brad will take the moment to insert a comment — “shut the fuck up, Ray” and “Ray, please stop talking” — until Ray’s at it again.

And then there are times when it’s quiet because Ray is sleeping. Brad remembers that from OIF. When the world went dark and cold and the spongy inside of his MOPP suit scratched against his arms, he’d make his rounds on watch and pass by Two-One’s humvee, his humvee, with the babies put to bed in their graves.

Walt was a restless sleeper. He rolled around until the dirt from the sides of his hole fell into his mouth or went up his nose, and then he’d have a coughing fit that would always wake up Reporter, who was a light sleeper and who never really seemed to rest in the face of just one more line for his notebook. Trombley slept anywhere and always, but Ray — Ray was different.

Ray had a routine. He would yell “goodnight” to pretty much every Marine in the platoon until somebody finally replied back — “Fuck you too!” and “I’ll put you down for more than just the night, motherfucker” — and then Ray would hunker down into his ranger grave and give one final shout out: “Goodnight, moon!” And after that, it seemed like everything went still and it went quiet, and, to Brad, it finally felt like nighttime.

*****

When they were shipped home, Brad rode the long way home from LAX on his Yamaha R1, which waited for him wrapped in its black tarp cover in the airport lot. His parents know that when he gets back from a tour that he needs peace and he needs time before he can see them. He needs to unwind and recover and get used to things again, and his bike does that when they can’t. Usually he sees them the next day.

After OIF, Brad rode fast and he rode recklessly back to his oceanfront one-story. He parked and sat there on his bike for a long time in the dark that wasn’t so dark with the streetlights and passing headlights and the moon reflecting off the water, and he remembered thinking it was so quiet then. Too silent, too still.

A few days later, he took a flight out to bumfuck Nevada, Missouri, and maybe Ray figured that meant something. Maybe he thought it meant what Brad hoped Ray would see it meant, but they never talked about it. That was one thing they never talked about.

At any rate, that night Brad was camped out on Ray’s springy couch and unable to sleep, and he was just thinking about heading out to the backyard when Ray wandered out of his bedroom.

There were crickets chirruping — Brad remembers the crickets because Iraq didn’t have them. Iraq had arty splattering and the rick-tick-tick of bullets and bombs going off like there was a celebration going on he wasn’t invited to. But on that night at Ray’s place, there was the sound of crickets until there was only the sound of Ray walking up to him in the dark.

Brad stared up at him. He remembers that because of the way the moon came in slivers through the blinds behind Ray until bits of light fell like scattering shadows on his naked skin and dark, dark hair. He stared up at the man until Ray came closer, closer until he was seated on Brad’s pelvis, straddling his waist with his knees pressing tight against Brad’s hips.

Brad remembers looking down then. He remembers that because Ray’s erection pressed against the soft part of his stomach, thick and longer than Brad thought it’d be, pubes trimmed down. And then Ray gripped his chin and made him meet his eyes past the shadows of slivers of light, and he said point blank, “Tell me what you want, Colbert, because I know you sure as hell didn’t succumb to the redneck retardese of the one true south just for kicks.”

So Brad told him what he wanted, told him how he wanted it, and he got it. Ray got that shit-eating grin on his face and leaned down to smashed their teeth together, kissed Brad so hard that it was less like a kiss and more like a fight. He fucked Brad’s mouth with his slick tongue, just as wicked as Brad thought it’d be — exploring, finding, tasting everything.

And then Brad took what he wanted, rolled them over until Ray was beneath him and squirming and small under his body. Ray’s hands went right to the waistline of Brad’s briefs and shoved them down, and Brad pressed between the legs that wrapped tight around his exposed hips without even kicking his briefs all the way off his legs.

He licked and bit and sucked until he found the places that made Ray moan the longest, curse the loudest, rut against him the fastest. He groped and squeezed and thrust until Ray’s voice was raw, because after Ray asked what he wanted, after Brad told him, after they both suddenly _got it_ , it was Ray’s voice that kept them going.

“You want it bad, don’t you,” Ray breathed against his neck as Brad doubled up his fingers and pressed into him. They didn’t have lube, just spit and a prayer, and fuck if that didn’t get Brad off so bad. “ _Fuck_. Like that, yeah.”

Brad scissored his fingers inside him then, stretching and prepping, their sweaty skin sticking and scraping, his balls heavy and his cock hard as fuck against Ray’s.

“Never thought you’d be the soft type, Sergeant,” Ray went on, his voice cracking on the name as Brad added another finger. “Being all _magnanimous_ and shit when I know you just want to pound me into this couch. Just fuckin’ fuck me raw already. You’re achin’ for it, your fuckin’ gorgeous cock — I can feel it, like you’re gonna blow all over me before you even — ”

He didn’t finish then, and Brad’s still not sure what he’s most surprised about — Ray’s sudden lack of speech at that moment or the feel of replacing his fingers with his swollen dick into that hot, hot, tight, tight hole.

He felt Ray’s surprised puff of breath against his cheek as he thrust in without warning, but he couldn’t take another word without being _inside_. He moaned, and it started from deep in his chest and came out long. Pressing his face into the side of Ray’s, he pulled almost all the way out and then began to thrust balls fuckin’ deep again, again, rough and mean and so fuckin’ good until Ray was crying out his name and cursing — “fuck, fuck, harder, _Brad_ ” and “oh, _God_ , yes, you dirty motherfucker” — and Brad reached down between them for Ray’s cock and squeezed it harder than he should have and jerked him fast and brutal.

And then it was just rutting senselessly, thoughtlessly, blind but to the feel of Ray’s dick hot in his hand and that tight heat around his own cock that burned him all the way through until he came harder than he’d ever come in his life.

Afterward, they lay there panting against each other, Brad still full inside him, Ray’s come sticky and wet between their chests. They were spent and they were satiated, and Brad remembers Ray saying at that moment, “Shit, homes, Iraq would’ve been much more fun if we’d done this earlier.”

*****

After that, Brad always told Ray everything he wanted, and Ray always gave it to him without question — with the added bonus (which Brad still holds as being relative) of a running commentary for everything else.

If Brad wants it fast, Ray strips them both down right where they stand and takes it or gives it, or both if they have time. If Brad wants it rough, Ray breaks out the handcuffs or the gag, depending their day, and he’ll cry out louder and more broken than Brad ever thought he’d hear. In the end, if Brad wants it, Ray gives it.

And for a while there, Brad thinks that’s everything he needs — everything he wants. But days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months, and sometimes these days, Ray goes quiet, and Brad isn’t sure what’s wrong.

*****

When Ray gets home, Brad has a bar of pineapple scented wax in one hand and is tugging his board up with the other. Ray bangs the door shut and throws his keys at the foyer table before kicking at the footstool where Brad’s board is propped up.

Brad knows fake pissed off, and he knows real pissed off. He also knows a fucked up mood when he sees one. “You OK?” he asks, turning to watch Ray head down the hall.

“Get in here, Brad. Get in here right the fuck now.”

Brad watches the way Ray’s muscles move as the man pulls off his gray wifebeater and exposes the tanned skin of his back. He watches as Ray kicks off his flip flops against the hallway walls and starts unbuttoning his jeans.

Ray tosses a glance over his shoulder after a minute and looks at him impatiently. “What? Don’t you want to?” he asks.

And then Brad’s body is in motion before he can really even process what’s going on. He pushes up and follows, hears his board clatter to the floor behind him. When he gets to the bedroom, Ray’s pushing down his jeans and boxers and stepping out of them. It’s still bright out past the blinds, and Brad can see every one of Ray’s tattoos, trails his eyes from one to the other like they’re parts of a map he needs to scour before figuring out where to go.

“What the fuck are you waitin’ for, man?” Ray says, holding his arms out like he’s ready to fight. “Get over here, and let’s _do_ this already.”

Brad steps up to him, takes in the tense lines of his shoulders, the hands on the hips with fingers pressed so hard against skin that they’ve turned white. He cups one hand along the line of Ray’s jaw and makes him look up. “What the fuck crawled up your ass and died?” he asks.

Ray abruptly pulls his face away and smacks the back of his hand hard against Brad’s stomach. It fuckin’ hurts, but Brad doesn’t show it, just takes a step back.

Ray watches his face with a scowl. “I need you. Come on,” he says. “Jesus. What’s the matter with you?”

Brad raises a brow. He’s confused, can tell Ray knows he’s being confusing, would mention PMS if he didn’t think that would only exacerbate the situation. “Talk to me, Ray,” is all he says instead.

Ray makes a frustrated sound, runs his palms across his temples and tugs on his hair a little. “I’m always fuckin’ talking!” he exclaims, whirling around.

Brad resists the urge to step close, put a hand on the man’s back, and just touch because right now, despite the fact that Ray’s asking for it, it doesn’t actually seem like that’s what Ray wants, or needs.

“I don’t want to talk right now, OK?” Ray says, voice softer now, but it’s shaking a bit beneath each syllable as if he’s about to snap, just lose control and — and what, Brad doesn’t really know. Ray turns around to face him, drops his hands from where he was gripping his hair until they’re dangling at his sides. “I don’t — I just want you to get over here. I need you to get over here, Brad.”

Brad moves closer, and Ray backpedals until he’s seated on the bed. Then he scoots back and waits for Brad to follow. First Brad pulls off his T-shirt, and then he unties the drawstring of his board shorts and lets them fall to the floor around his ankles. Ray’s eyes are large, his long lashes brushing against the sun freckles high on his cheekbones, and Brad steps out of his shorts and crawls onto the bed until he’s on all fours over him.

“Tell me,” Ray says, and his voice is soft like a breath. “Tell me what you want.”

Brad cups his face again, and this time Ray leans into the touch, shuts his eyes, exhales slowly. Brad slides his hand down to trail his fingertips down Ray’s chest, skirts around the blue star tattoos and replaces the touch with closed-mouth kisses on the letters of the “No dice” tattoo under his collar. Ray’s hand comes up to fist in his hair, to pull him closer, breathing movements slow against Brad’s own chest, and Brad thinks then, absently, that it’s so quiet.

It’s not until Ray says, “What do what you want. Tell me,” that Brad realizes exactly what he wants, what he needs.

He pulls away and sits up, kneeling with his legs on either side of Ray’s hips without touching the man, and Ray blinks his eyes open in confusion.

“What are you doing?” Ray asks.

Brad watches his face carefully as he swings one leg up and around so he can sit next to him, until they’re not touching anymore.

“Um, hello? My cock would like to know where the sex is, please.”

Slowly easing himself down, Brad lies sideways and props his head up with one crooked arm and just looks at him. “Ray,” he says slowly, contemplating.

“Brad,” Ray replies, tone mocking. “What the fuck?”

“What do you want, Ray?”

Ray’s eyebrows go up. “What?”

“I asked you what you want. What do you want from me?”

Sitting up quickly at that, Ray’s face contorts suspiciously, and Brad gets a roiling feeling in his gut that says this is going south, and fast, but it needs to be done, and he’s not fuckin’ backing down.

“Shit,” Ray says with an exasperated sigh. “Are you being serious right now? Are you honest-to-God asking me that question?”

Brad slowly pushes up to a sitting position and leans on his hand. “Calm down, Ray.”

“No, don’t tell me to calm down!” Ray replies, shifting back, scowling in full now. “All I wanted was a goddamn fuck after a long day. Is that too much to ask? Jesus _Christ_ , Brad. Way to spring this stupid relationship bullshit on me on the worst day of my _life_.”

“You can quit being a whiskey tango drama queen any time now,” Brad says, voice even. “I just asked you what you — ”

“— want. Yes, I got that.” Ray makes a frustrated sound, snags a pillow, and slaps it at Brad, who blocks it with his free arm. Then Ray throws it at the bureau in anger. “OK, fine. _Fine_. I want you, OK? I fuckin’ _love_ you. Is that what you wanted to hear? You wanted to hear me say it first? Well whoo-fuckin’-hoo, Colbert. Can we finally get it on now?”

Brad stares at him for so long and so hard that Ray waves a hand in front of his face.

“What, didn’t think I’d say it? Big fuckin’ deal. Shit’s weak. I thought you knew that ages ago, you retard.” He crawls closer on the bed and kneels in front of Brad, straddles one thigh, and Brad can feel his hard cock press into the line of his hip. “Now. _Tell me_.”

Brad blinks, and then it’s like he’s not frozen anymore. He circles one arm around Ray’s waist and sees a smile — God, and it isn’t that shit-eating grin, but a smile — and he pulls him close, presses his nose against Ray’s collar bone, trails it over the letters of his tattoo, smells sun sweat and Old Spice body wash and feels the man’s laugh through his own chest. Ray doesn’t say anything else, runs his hands through Brad’s coming-on-longer-than-regulation hair, presses a kiss to his crown.

Then Brad forces himself to pull away. Ray’s smile — that fuckin’ smile — fades then, and it jerks something in Brad’s gut to see it go. But he has to hear it. He has to know that what this is, that what they have, isn’t going to be like it was for him for seven years with someone else during another time. Because this is now, today, and he needs for it to be different. Because he needs it so fuckin’ much.

“That isn’t really what I was going for,” Brad says, and he can barely hear himself. He pushes Ray down, and Ray follows his lead because Ray always follows his lead. Then Brad lies back down on his side beside him. “I want you to tell me what you want. I —,” he cuts himself off there because he doesn’t know how to explain. He doesn’t know what to say other than that he wants Ray to _tell him_.

Ray blinks owlishly at him — all long eyelashes and tanned skin and pressed-together lips and jaw stubble. And then that smile comes back again, slowly this time, peeking up past the uncertainty Brad had inadvertently put there.

“Oh. I get it now. You want to show me, Brad?” And it’s like the lights have come on, bright and easy and illuminating even with the sunlight pouring in past the blinds. “You want me to tell you what I want? You want to give it to me the way I want it?”

He laughs, and Brad’s not scared, but he isn’t at ease either. He sits up as Ray sits up, realizes at that moment as Ray runs his eyes over him that this is going to be harder than he thought — keeping his hands off until he’s told to touch again.

“You want me to tell you, blow by blow, exactly how I want it?” Ray says, his voice dipping into a lower register that stirs his gut around with want. “You dirty son of a bitch. I want you to get over here. How about that?”

He holds out his hands and draws his fingers in, telling Brad what to do, and Brad crawls over him again. Ray’s hands slide onto his hips, up his sides and make a shiver run down his body.

“I want you to go down on me, Brad,” Ray says. “Just lick your way down like I’m made of fuckin’ Jalapeno cheese.” He laughs at Brad’s crooked grin, but then his grin disappears into a long moan as Brad does exactly that, wraps his long fingers around Ray’s cock and starts stroking as he licks his way around the man’s tattoos, down the line of his torso, sucks at the soft skin below his naval.

“Like this?” Brad asks, breathing just above his dick.

“Shit, shit. Yeah, like that,” Ray says, fisting his hand in Brad’s hair and forcing his head against his cock. Brad trails his nose along the length, and Ray says, voice strangled, “Suck me off, Brad. Right now. Fuck.”

And Brad does, takes just the head in first, swirls his tongue around the tip, lips catching slightly so he pulls away to lick them. Ray tugs on his hair tightly, makes tears sting the backs of Brad’s eyes from the pain of it, and fuck if he isn’t turned on like hell.

“— the fuck do you think you’re doing? Come on. Come on,” Ray pants above him.

Brad replaces his mouth again, using his tongue to moisten the way for his lips around and up, and he places his hands on Ray’s hips as the man jerks up into his mouth.

“I want your fingers in me. Your long fuckin’ fingers inside of me,” Ray says over a moan, lifting his hips up and pressing his cock into the back of Brad’s throat. Brad doesn’t take the time to lick his fingers slick, doesn’t think Ray means for him to if how tight he’s pulling Brad’s head further onto his cock is any indication. Brad pushes in, feels the hole give for the roughened tips of his two fingers and moans around Ray’s cock.

And then Ray’s using both hands to pull Brad’s mouth of him. He looks down and says, “Stop stop stop. Forget it. Just fuck me already. I want you to stop pussy-footing with your fingers and fuck me already, Colbert.”

“Are you sure?” Brad asks, looking up at him and pulling his fingers out slowly.

“Shut the fuck up and do it,” Ray orders, frowning at him impatiently, sweat beaded on his forehead, and Brad grins back, pulling Ray’s legs up higher around his hips and lining himself up.

He watches Ray’s face as he breaches the hole, watches the man bite down on his bottom lip as Brad pushes in slowly, inch by inch. He feels the heat and each contracting pulse on his cock as he thrusts further in.

Ray’s eyes flutter shut as he whispers, “Oh God. Oh shit. Oh fuck,” and Brad presses open-mouthed kisses up his sternum until he’s all the way inside.

Brad doesn’t let himself pull out and fuck like he wants to. He stays where he is, heat not just around his cock but searing through his entire body, and he waits there. “Tell me, Ray,” he whispers against a nipple.

He flicks his tongue at it, and then presses his entire mouth on it, tongue swiping, teeth nipping, and he relishes the answering moan he gets. Ray’s hands fall to his shoulders where he presses his fingertips hard into the muscle. Brad’s pretty sure he’ll have crescent moon indents there, but he doesn’t care.

“Tell me what you want,” Brad repeats.

“Slow,” Ray gasps out. “Fuck me nice and easy, Brad. I want to feel every inch of you. Every inch of your gorgeous fucking cock in me.”

So Brad does. He pulls slowly out, achingly slow so that his gut churns with want, but every noise Ray makes magnifies the heat of every move, sears him with it until he’s digging his own fingertips into the flesh of Ray’s thighs.

Ray lifts his hips up higher and moves against him, meeting him high with each slow thrust until he’s crying out, “Oh shit, fuck,” and his hand reaches down to jerk himself off. Brad unclenches one hand from Ray’s leg and pulls the hand away so he can do it himself. “Oh fuck,” Ray cries out as Brad flicks his thumb over the head of his leaking cock. “Shit. Just fuck me. Fucking fuck me hard, I can’t — _Brad_.”

And Brad can barely take it himself when he pulls almost all the way out and starts thrusting in earnest, quick, dirty thrusts, hips jerking forward until all he can hear is the slap of skin on skin and Ray’s moans. And then Ray comes. He comes in spurts against Brad’s stomach and chest, hands gripping painfully tight on his shoulders, and Brad follows right after, back stiffening as he holds in a moan and comes hard inside of him.

Afterward, they’re breathing hard, chests moving up and down and pressing against each other as if fighting for access to air, and Brad can feel Ray’s thumping heart through his own chest.

“Shit, you are one heavy motherfucker,” Ray says after a moment, still out of breath.

Brad pushes up onto his elbows above him, and Ray immediately reaches an arm around him to hold him in place. “Is that your ever-tactless way of saying I’m fat?” Brad asks, raising a brow.

Ray laughs. “Quit being so sensitive. You’d think being a giant and a Viking in the sack would ease your weird Hebrew insecurities.”

Brad rolls off of him with a groan. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

Ray snorts and draws the sheet over them both. A moment later, he asks, “What the hell was that, anyway? Not that I’m complaining or anything, because I feel like I fuckin’ died in the middle of it just to _come_ back to life.” He pauses, shoots a quick look at Brad, and then cuts a slice of a grin across his face. “Get it?”

Brad rolls his eyes in response and tucks one arm under his head and looks up at the ceiling. He thinks about it for a moment before saying, “You’ve been in such a fuckin’ mood lately. I knew what I wanted, Ray, but for all the bullshit you spout, I realized that I didn’t have a clue about you.”

It’s silent then, still in a way that Brad hasn’t experienced since he and Ray moved in together. He fights the urge to glance to his side just to make sure he’s not alone.

And then Ray says, “Jesus. We’re seriously a straight up shitshow together. What the fuck are we even doing here?” He laughs, gainsaying his own question, and the bed dips as he rolls over. He slides a hand slowly across Brad’s chest. The rest of his body follows as he stretches long until their bodies are in line again, and he finally rests his chin on Brad’s sternum, looking at him with amused eyes. “You didn’t know what I wanted? Idiot.”

Brad cuts a sharp glance at him, takes in the grin and the half-lidded eyes and the hickey blooming on the side of his neck. He can’t help it that the corner of his lip tilts up. “I’m being serious. I have everything I want, Ray. If this isn’t it for you, I need to know.”

Ray sighs, his chest depressing Brad’s as he does so, and his eyes flutter shut. “You’re really killing my post-coital glow, here.”

“I didn’t know they taught such big words in the Whiskey Tango trailer park educational system,” Brad retorts, but he slides his hands up over the curve of Ray’s ass, feels the man’s cock twitch against his hip, and he slides his hands up and down Ray’s back. “I figured they taught courses like Inbreeding 101: Siblings, Cousins, Mothers. And maybe even How to Spit Tobacco So It Gets All Over Everything, but proper sex terms? I thought that would be limited to ‘stick tab A into slot B.’ Probably with in-class practical demonstrations.”

He feels the repressed laugh even if he doesn’t get to listen to it, and instead all he hears is, “Oh, fuck you too.”

When Ray opens his eyes again, he has the smile on his face — not the grin, not a variation of cheesin’ like he just ate somebody else’s canary — but that smile Brad finally got to see for the first time earlier.

“Look, I have what I want,” Ray says. “Got it the first day you moseyed on down to Nevada, Missouri, baby. You think giving you whatever the fuck you want isn’t any good for me? Shit, Brad. The look on your face when you come — and the fact that I put that look on your face? — hot _damn_ , homes. Makes me blow my load every time like I’m Old-fuckin’-Faithful.”

Brad watches his face, listens as Ray starts to wax philosophical about sex and come and geysers and how they should go on a gay-ass road trip to Yellowstone together and fuck against each boulder and every tree until they both have pebbles and bark embedded in their backs and knees.

And then he listens to Ray talk about the healing properties of nature and certain plants and how lube is pretty much all organic, right? Which means that Jesus is totally on board with this plan, which makes Ray something like the heavenly prophet of monkey-fucking. And if Jesus _isn’t_ on board, well, Ray’s an agnostic and Brad’s a Jew, so fuck it anyway.

Brad lets the words wash over him, almost turn into white noise, injects a “yeah” or an “mmhm” and an occasional “shut the fuck up, Ray,” but he’s warm from the sunlight pouring into their bedroom, warm from the heat of Ray’s body along his own, and Ray’s not in a fucked up mood anymore.

And maybe Brad didn’t — couldn’t — reciprocate the words that came so easily from Ray’s mouth like so much word vomit, but he thinks maybe Ray gets it.

Ray always seems to know what Brad wants, needs, what he means, anyway. And after a moment, Brad realizes that it’s quiet, that he can’t feel Ray’s words reverberating from the man’s chest to his own. When he snaps to, Ray’s studying his face carefully.

“What the fuck are you thinkin’ about that’s more important than what I’m talkin’ about?” Ray asks, tone indignant but eyes calculating.

Brad lets a slow grin spread across his face, lifts his hand off the man’s back to tug a little on his hair. “My dick could probably explain better than I could. I’m afraid I don’t have the same way with words that you do,” Brad replies easily, planting his hands on the sharp lines of Ray’s hips. The man’s answering grin is all the permission Brad needs to flip them over so that he’s lying down on top of him, spreading Ray’s legs with his knee.

This time, Ray doesn’t say ‘tell me.’ Instead, he tells Brad in a new soft tone that sends heat all the way through his body, “Show me, motherfucker.”

And so Brad does.

  
 _fin_   



End file.
